


the space between [Zarry]

by kaleidoscopecait



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1d, M/M, bottomHarry, harrystyles, topzayn, zaynmalik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:14:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidoscopecait/pseuds/kaleidoscopecait





	the space between [Zarry]

+mature

"Fuck," I toss my head back, panting as he grips at my hair, tugging roughly.

"Come on slut," he hisses through gritted teeth. "Take it. Fucking take it," he spits.

He's ripping into me, the headboard knocking harshly against the wall.

"Wanna pound into you all night long," he moans. "You look so pretty wrecked."

His thrusts are ruthless, he's seething in anger and I whimper pitifully, tears stinging my eyes. My throat is dry and raw and he slaps my cheek, hard.

"Beg for me you filthy slut. Come on," he taunts, smirk on his face.

"Please," I sob, voice trembling. My body is shaking, syllables breaking.

"Please what?"

"Fuck me harder," I whimper softly.

"How hard slut? Hmm? How fucking hard," he yells, voice booming as it echoes through the room.

Tears blur my vision and I choke on my words. "Until I can't walk straight for a week."

"Very good," he chuckles darkly, knuckles grazing my jaw.

It's a simple move but his touch is suddenly so tender. I'm weeping like an overly senstive-

"Stop crying," he growls.

Somewhere deep down he's soft, I know he is.

"No, stop" I plead and he tenses up, eyes searching mine.

"What did you just say?"

His body freezes, pulling out of me and I whine at the loss of contact, rutting shamelessly against the sheets. Hard and leaking without the satisfaction of getting off. It feels like torture.

"I'm s-sorry," my voice falters. "Sorry someone hurt you so damn much that you resorted to treating people this way...because you need the release, I'm sorry. I know this isn't the real you. Hell, this isn't even the real me."

I feel a dull ache that won't go away, mouth dry, heart yearning.

"Sometimes I want someone to touch me...nevermind," I sigh, suddenly dejected, drained of all my every, thighs still quaking.

"Keep going," he says softly, hand caressing my cheek.

"In a meaningful way, like I'm not a worthless piece of-"

"I hate that I make you feel that way," he frowns and swallows thickly.

"I'm used to it," I mutter angrily, heart fisting up, eyelids screwing shut. "I'm nothing but a filthy slut."

"Why do you do it?"

There's a constant stream of tears streaking down my cheeks. His golden eyes seem so kind for once, long lashes batting as he gazes down at me.

"You're beautiful," he whispers. "I want...stay the night. I'll pay you extra."

His fingers card through my sticky, sweaty curls. He smiles at me fondly and I melt a tiny bit.

"Alright. I want double."

He chuckles, pulling me into his arms and God, it's such a lovely sound.

"Did you want me to finish you off?"

"Doesn't matter," I sulk.

"It does matter. Do I...do I hurt you?"

"Sometimes it's excruciating," I admit. "But I do it because you need it and I don't care that it hurts because you're beautiful in such a heartbreaking way. I pay full attention to detail, you have calloused fingers because you've been clutching onto a paintbrush for so long, trying to create art when you don't realize it's you. You're the masterpiece. I know you promised your mum you'd quit but everytime you inhale nicotine you feel yourself relax. It's comforting and familiar...and you don't really care if it's bad for you because it makes you feel good. That's all you really want, isn't it? I make you feel good in a way she can't but you won't admit it because you're such a devout Muslim," I say bitterly. "And you don't want to disappoint your dear father and maybe you're still just as confused about your sexuality as I am. I have plenty of other clients. That's the thing though, it's always you I lie awake thinking about in the middle of the night. My sheets are lonely, I only feel warm when I'm in a stranger's bed."

The pad of his thumb catches my tears but he remains silent. He never says anything but fierce commands and obscene remarks.

His tone has a sharp edge, a bite that makes me shiver but I let him use me because I lose myself in him every damn time.

It almost makes me forget I'm a prostitute and I can picture us in a real house, not a cheap motel. There's a bookshelf overflowing with poetry because it speaks to him but he doesn't have the courage to spit it out and there's a tea pot making a shrill whistling noise.

He's still in bed because it's a lazy Sunday, early morning light filtering through the crinkled curtains.

I'm waiting for him to wake up, sleepy eyed, hair a mess and kiss the corner of my mouth.

That isn't what happens because it's something I've constructed in my mind, some false hope I'm desperately clinging to

but when he kisses my warm, bare shoulder I shiver and wonder if maybe he just feels sorry for me

...

I'm not sure why I thought things would be different. It was as hot and heavy as ever, three rounds in one night until I was stiff and sore, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, curled up beside him.

Tucked into his arms I focused on the steady law of his heartbeat and the deep crease between his eyebrows.

It was foolish of me to think my pleas would change him.

He's engaged.

I guess I thought my words were touching but it's goddamn impossible to move mountains.

I'm heaving out a heavy sigh, fingers brushing through my wet ringlets. I fix a steaming mug of coffee and thumb through the newspaper.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Drugs, sex, scandals and death.

I chuckle, toss it on the coffee table and switch on the telly for some background noise.

His name is Zayn. I repeat it over and over because I like how it slides off my tongue.

Not even the blaring sound of a footie game can distract me. My thoughts always wander back to him.

I'm like a lost stray, a love sick puppy with big sad eyes.

He probably thinks I'm a bumbling idiot. Must be so easy to take what he needs and discard me.

Slut. How can I feel so strongly about him? He doesn't even know my name, doesn't have the decency to ask for it.

No, I am something less than human.

She's beautiful though, bright bubbly laughter and long blonde hair. Sparkly blue eyes and soft, full lips. She's graceful and sweet and she's wrapped around his finger.

Almost as much as me.

His art is incredible, I wonder if he knows that. I guess he'd rather pretend to be someone he isn't, a sharp, smart businessman. Tie perfectly knotted, flashing a charming smile in a tailored suit.

Nobody has seen him the way I have. Messy and undone, unraveling and falling limply onto the bed, arms giving way beneath him.

He'll never admit that I make him come. Not once, but twice most nights.

Not to mention, he could afford a better place to meet me but he doesn't want anyone to recognize him; to expose him with some relatively cheap male prostitute.

I'll usually wake up alone, eyes falling on the wad of cash on the dusty nightstand.

I lick my fingers and count, heart doing the stupid little thing because it's more than we agreed on.

But I keep crawling back to him. Keep pressing my knees to dirty carpet, keep sucking him off, let him penetrate me in a king sized bed with linens that smell like harsh fabric softener and strong chemicals.

Every so often he'll sigh happily, head hitting his pillow with a soft thud. But he rarely holds me, leaves just enough space for me to get the idea.

I'm not worthy, not even our fingertips brushing.

So my cheek presses to the pillow or I stare blankly at the ceiling, feeling empty despite the fact that waves of pleasure just surged through me; overwhelmed my body until I shuddered and came fast and quick and rather sloppily.

That's what it's like. Hurried and rushed and devoid of emotion.

I'm sure he makes love to her. It's passionate and beautiful and he murmurs swest nothings to her, tells her she's his everything and she relishes every moment.

They touch each other, talk afterwards and kiss like they have all the time in the world. He fucking cherishes her too.

I feel bad for her. She doesn't deserve this. She needs to know. I could ruin things too. I have plenty of proof.

I've memorized every tattoo and every scar on his naked, tan body.

I doubt he could name two of mine. Sometimes I want to kiss down his spine or his hipbone. I want to scatter a trail of kisses down his chest or litter lovebites between his thighs.

Why? Why would I when he doesn't even look me in the eyes as he takes me.

The intensity of his gaze would kill me anyway, I suppose it's better that way.

Too much of a man to accept that he likes it. I always leave him satisfied.

He leaves me wanting more.

Or on most mornings he just simply leaves me.

...

It's never enough. Third night this week and you'd think she'd be suspicious of the I had to work late lie and who knows, maybe she knows the truth but the pill is too hard to swallow.

I'm jealous of her softness and how sweet her skin must taste to him.

"Kiss me," he whispers, eyes glimmering.

"You want me to kiss you?"

"I'm paying you aren't I?"

He grins, tongue pressed to his teeth and I smile into the kiss, tongue running along his bottom lip, cupping his neck, thumb on his sharp jaw.

His lips part for me and my tongue dips into his wet mouth tentatively, like going into the deep end for your first swim. I am swimming in a pool of lust, fucking drowning.

He pulls me closer, closer, closer still, rise and fall of his chest pressed to mine, our legs tangled.

Tell me you feel it too, that electricity shoot through you. You feel it don't you, Zayn?

I'm melting like warm wax at his touch, growing breathless, heart fluttering in my chest like it has damn wings.

I am fairly certain it doesn't but I'm being lifted away.

The ache grows stronger and I'm shaking terribly as I try to cup his face in my hands and deepen the kiss.

I'm nudging his legs apart, pressing up against him and humming into his mouth. He lets out a small gasp that warmly hits the back of my throat.

He pulls away suddenly and I must look so solemn and lost and broken because he blinks back tears and says "I don't understand anything anymore but please tell me your name."

Should I bite my tounge and torch my dreams before it's too late to turn back?

I can feel my pulse strumming in my neck.

Don't you dare do it Harry, he's just going to leave you with a shattered heart. Abandon you for her.

"Harry," I whisper quietly.

"My God," his fingers massage my scalp and my eyelids flutter closed.

Then he finally says it and it's fucking Earth shattering and I have to remind myself how to breathe because it's that beautiful and it's tender and shaky but raw.

Harreh.

Thick Bradford accent. I nearly weep, fingers skimming his warm, tight skin.

I peel at his mouth and then my lips are frenzied. Everywhere. Working at his neck and jaw until it goes slack and he moans my name.

His heart is hammering away and I have never been so desperate it my life, tongue lapping, tasting every sliver of his skin.

There's a senstive patch behind his ear and he says quietly.

"She's never kissed me there."

"I'm not her."

"Don't want her anyway," he pants heavily.

He sits up abruptly but grips my hips and I'm almost relived he wants control again. His teeth catch on my nipple. It's hard and sore but then he licks a circle around it and softens it in his wet, warm mouth.

He does the same with the other and I hiss, back arching up off the bed.

His tongue licks a strip down my belly all the way to my waist.

I'm so wet, soaking through my boxers and he's a tease because he can feel me pressed to him, begging with my eyes.

My hands get lost in his coal black tufts and he strokes me, smile on his face.

His eyelids close as he takes my in his mouth, cheeks hollowing, fluttering around me. I'm thrusting hopelessly and he stops, pulling off with an obscene pop.

"Can you take it for me?"

"Yes, yes," I answer breathlessly.

"Wait," he says quietly. "I...that isn't what I meant to say."

I prop myself up on my elbows, brows furrowed.

"You were right about everything and I don't want to hurt you anymore. I don't want you to feel alone, I don't want to be a stranger Harry."

"You love her though, don't you?"

"I think I did once."


End file.
